House of Cards
by OutOfTheConfinesOfFear
Summary: Case-based: Castle, Beckett & the team are thrown into what has been staged as a suicide. Has the killer been hiding under their protection all along? Fake identities, gambling, drugs, a five year old girl. Snippet - "He spends long moments with his face pressed against the cold window, watching dismally as glowing streetlights catch raindrops like glitter and slip away."


_So I wanted to write a case-based multi-chapter fic and then I chickened out. Anyway I have had this intro saved for a while now and I decided to just give it to you guys and see what you think._

_WARNING: This story contains references and descriptions of drugs and drugs use. If it is continued it is likely to delve into some darker themes and the rating is only M on that basis alone. Sorry ;)_

_All mistakes are mine, I own them with no pride at all. I apologise. _

_I do not own the Castle characters though I always love playing with them and I hope you like the product of play here._

* * *

He's grumpy as she flutters around him, a flurry of make-up and curls and not this shirt, that shirt. Gun, badge, coffee. It's still dark outside. He's still grumpy. She presses a travel mug into his hand and kisses him anyway.

They are both two coffees deep and the drive is silent. He's mopey, though she doesn't blame him.

The past week has been hellish. A double homicide that sent them running in foolish circles and knocking into each other. The gruesome, unprovoked overkill of both victims sent adrenaline levels a pitch higher and the strain of having to tie up twice the number of leads before everything went cold played on everyone. Shoulders were tense and tempers short all around. Hours fell into each other and then fell into days and the idea of sleep became some faded memory buried under shot after shot of caffeine. They slept, of course, but only by necessity which meant no schedule. He woke sometimes in the break room and the sun was going or coming, either way it was pinkish and whether a day came or went was unclear. She counted days by how many times they left the precinct, chasing some lead they knew to be a dead end, in different shades of light. Until last night when they tumbled out of the precinct in the violet hour, high off the close and buzzing on reserved energy. The reserve was only deep enough to carry them home though and then it was all just stripping clothes away and falling into infinite darkness, bodies completely drained and heavy against the sheets. He drooled on her. She couldn't even care. And so five hours of bone deep rest, was not nearly enough.

He releases a heavy sigh next to her and she chances a quick glance. His hair is flopping limply over his forehead, cheeks and jaw left stubbled in the rush of getting out the door, his eyes are puffed and ringed dark and his body looks too small for his clothes, run down and too thin. He looks awful and pouty and she inwardly rolls her eyes at herself for the swelling thought that he is still the loveliest thing she has ever known. She imagines her reflection might show a similar state of disaster, she's not sure, she's learnt to avoid it almost completely on mornings like these. She at least doesn't pay it any attention, it hurts the ego. She feels, however, as though 'washed up' might be an undeserved compliment right now.

He spends long moments with his face pressed against the cold window, watching dismally as glowing streetlights catch raindrops like glitter and slip away. It's bleak as winter creeps in around the edges of the nights, training for the up-coming hostile take-over. But the coffee eventually leaks into his system and he lifts his head to look at her. She's gorgeous. Her face drifting rhythmically in and out of shadows as they drive through puddles of streetlight. How she manages to look like that, after running through hell and back, he still doesn't understand. He hates it a little bit. She's annoying, actually. Or maybe it is just this week that is annoying him, royally pissing him off is probably closer to the mark.

"Beckett," he begins. She hums non-committedly and he carries on, "I'm going to say this in the nicest way possible…this week has been gruelling in the most ungodly of ways and I hate it immensely. I hate it with a burning fury. May it rot eternally in the fiery depths of hell."

She snorts and purses her lips. "Really, Castle, that's the nicest way to say it?" She asks, abysmally failing at hiding her amusement.

He grins at her and says, "Well, I have a few choice expletives that I didn't use, so yes."

Her smile cracks open in the light and she shakes her head, though she can't help but agree. "That's true. I have a few choice profanities of my own," she says.

It rouses a chuckle out of him and she knows he's done moping. She braces herself for the questions.

"Hey, how do we know the suicide was faked?" He asks excitedly, back straightening and body edgy in his chair now as he looks out the window with gleaming eyes. So predictable. Though she must admit, she expected the gleam over a faked suicide a little earlier. He must be as exhausted as she feels.

"Apparently the neighbours heard fighting and then they heard the gun shot and then nothing. Attending officers say the place is a mess so a suicide note isn't really convincing on its own."

He hums to himself, thinking it over silently before agreeing, "Yeah, that's true."

She rolls her eyes at the way he says it like he has just contributed something of valuable input. He's so annoying. She needs more coffee.

* * *

Ryan jogs up to them, three piece suit and tie, groomed hair and shining blue eyes. He's moving fast, smiling brightly. Castle briefly considers knocking his teeth right out. He's far too chipper for an early morning/late night call like this, particularly after the week from hell and how he manages to look so completely unwrinkled is an annoyance Castle is not in the mood to handle right now. "Hey, Ryan," Kate says with an amount of cheer she is yet to grace Castle with this morning and he childishly thinks about telling her that maybe she should just marry Ryan. They are morning people. He hates that. They're annoying him.

Esposito slumps up behind his partner, uncombed hair and unshaven, badge hanging around his neck and dropping down over a tight black polo. He's in an appropriate state of disarray, unlike Ryan. Castle likes that. Espo sidles up next to Ryan and grunts at Kate. He nods half-heartedly to Castle, his expression completely lazed and unmoving. It's about as polite as this morning is going to get between the two of them, a grumpy nod simply to acknowledge the others existence in this world, it would be completely rude not to do that. Castle nods back. He scowls at Ryan.

They are standing on the sidewalk outside a dilapidating apartment block and Lanie's head pops out of a window on the second floor. "I have already been here for a damn hour and I want to get moving so if y'all don't get your lazy butts up here and paste a smile on your faces right now, I'm gonna kick all your asses," she hollers down at them.

Lanie's bad mood always trumps everyone else's bad mood and they instantly do as told. Her voice snaps cold through all of them and straightens their spines. They're smiling sheepishly at each other and then they hear a "That means you, Beckett, now!" and all four of them are scampering into the building like scared mice. They're laughing at each other but it is a nervous thing. A sleep deprived Lanie is a dangerous beast. They are all cowards.

It stinks in here. That is the first thought he has though he immediately regrets saying it out loud because Kate is twisting back to glare at him and Esposito is snorting beside him as they make their way to the stairs.

It's true though, the smell is bad, repulsive even, abhorrent. Two of the three entry way lights have been smashed, the lock on the main door looks like it was cracked open long ago and so to do the locks on most the letter boxes lining the side wall. There are spider webs slung thickly across the corners and most the paint has chipped away from the walls. He can't quite make out the colour of the carpet but it is that industrial type with the tight weave; could be dark purple or brown and the smell! The smell is like cat pee, maybe, or wet dog… No! Dead rat, definitely, dead rat!

"Bro, shut up, before she comes back here to kick your ass," Esposito says, shoulder barging him as they wordlessly battle over which one of them will mount the stairs first. Things always get petty on mornings like these.

By the time they reach the second floor they are all bickering mindlessly over nothing. The boys are driving her crazy and she is about to turn around and punch whichever one happens to be closest but then Lanie is standing in the doorway and everything stops. They drop silent. Lanie isn't happy.

"Mmmhmmm," she hums, eyebrow raised to dangerous heights. She turns and heads back into the apartment.

The team settles and takes a collective breath on this side of the tape. It's always like this, whether they enter as two or four; there is a moment of stillness. Yellow tape is clarity. It makes them sharper, more alert, professionalism cloaks over them and they enter into every detail. There is moment of stilled silence, in respect, maybe, or preparation, or both. It doesn't get easier, they're used to it, but it doesn't really get easier, and that's the only thing that tells them they are still fit for this job.

They slip under the tape and freeze in the doorway. There is a second of sighed heartbreak as they take in their surroundings. It's bad, really bad. The apartment is tiny, one main room, kitchen and three doorways, bedrooms and bathroom most likely. The carpet is stained, mottled black and brown in cream. The windows are filthy, grime coated and one is cracked straight down the middle, dingy light from the back alley shared with a rent by the hour motel barely seeping in. The ceiling is swollen and mouldy, walls too, paint cracked and flacking away in random patches. There is a torn couch against the back corner, rusted brown in colour and facing an old television standing on a shaky looking stool. That's about it, as far as furnishing goes. The kitchen is adjoining and they all clench their eyes against it, witnessing lives like this never gets easier and this tiny space is spelling out a horrible tale. The overhead cupboard doors are hanging precariously on loose screws, musky green in colour and chipped all around, most the handles are missing. The kitchen top is littered with plates and cups hardened with filth. Empty or half empty bottles of Jim, Jack and Jameson. The front corner is scattered with dirty drug equipment; burners and bent spoons, syringes, pipes, and a neat row of cocaine. The linoleum floor scattered with shattered glass.

The blood spatter is extensive in a small space like this.

The boys split off to the sides; gather information from the two uniforms that were first on scene, everyone snapping on gloves as they go. Beckett and Castle move to Lanie whose kneeling down in the middle of the main room next to the body. There is a large puddle of blood pooled around the victim's head, stain spreading in the woven fibres of carpet, gun in her left hand. She looks to be late–thirties, maybe, pale weathered skin with what were probably light brown curls matted in blood. They squat down opposite Lanie who looks up at Kate, face flooded with sorrow now. "I know," she says quietly. Beckett just nods and clears her throat.

"So GSW to the head. Anything else?" She asks. Her voice is steady, professional and distanced, she has to be, it's too easy to miss things amongst the grief.

Lanie shakes her head. "No, name is Nina Brown, 33, and at this stage I'd say cause of death is exactly how it looks. Interesting thing is though, I think uniforms were right to call your team in; it's a little hard to tell because there are a lot of scars, both fresh and old on her arms and torso, but there seems to have been quite a struggle. There is blood under her fingernails, though it could be her own since it looks like she has been scratching herself quiet badly - "

"Maybe coming off drugs?" Beckett asks.

Lanie nods, though uncertainly. "Maybe," she says. "But from the looks of this place I'd says it's more likely to have been an effect of the drugs, sometimes people using have that same kind of feeling." Beckett nods and Lanie keeps going, "it'll take me a little while to get any direct results back to you since you can see there is a lot for me to work through, but just from the shape and look of some of the more fresh scratches and bruising I would say - "

There is a soft tapping sound coming from the second room to their right and Lanie stops mid-sentence. Kate and Castle look up, find Esposito and Ryan twisted away from their conversations with the other officers and looking back at them. Then there is a long scraping sound followed by a soft click and the apartment falls into an eerie silence. Ryan and Esposito silently tuck their note pads away and start moving stealthily towards the door. Kate reaches out and grabs Lanie's arm, "I need you to get out of here, okay?" she whispers. Lanie looks up with wide eyes but nods silently and rises as Kate signals to the two officers by the door to escort Lanie out.

They line up then, two by two on either side of the door frame, adrenaline licking through their veins. The team settles for three measured heartbeats before Kate nods and they burst through into the tiny bedroom. Beckett is between Ryan and Esposito, weapons drawn, Castle tailing in behind them. The room is entirely still but it is a little cleaner in here, she notices. There isn't much, a metal framed bed with a little flower dotted blanket and a fairly clean pillowcase, a skew chest of draws and a tall oak cupboard which looks peculiar in this place. The carpet is cleaner, but the window is completely blacked out.

There really isn't much of a room to clear, crowded into the doorway with nowhere to go all three are beginning to lower their weapons when the window opposite them creaks open and the tiny space is rapidly filled with a cacophony of barked orders.

"NYPD," Beckett shouts, gun raised.

"On the ground," Ryan orders.

"Down on the ground, now, now!" Esposito barks at the same time.

The girl tumbles through the window she has jimmied open from the fire escape in a tangled mess of limbs, long black hair and muttered obscenities. She lands in a crumpled mess, presses hard into the carpet as she struggles to right herself. She slowly pulls herself up onto her knees and turns panicked eyes to them as she flicks her hair away. It startles them all, her age and appearance. She looks young, maybe just dipping her toes into adulthood, 24 at most. She's small, probably 5 ft. nothing, give an inch at best and she's thin. Too thin. The singlet she has on is cut low on the sides, showing the bright red lace of her bra banded over lines of ribs that they could count from here. She's hollow almost, arms that hang limp and shoulders that curl in, parallel running legs and protruding knees jutting out of ripped up grey denim shorts, lace-less cracked leather boots hanging loosely on her feet.

Beckett is the first to recover from the shock of her and realise the girl is holding a knife.

"Drop the weapon, now, drop it!" Beckett barks at the girl, her cold harsh voice zipping straight up the girl's spine and sending her hands up in surrender. Ryan moves in quickly, kicks the knife away and cuffs the girl's hands behind her back.

She doesn't move, the girl, she's stunned still and looking at Beckett, startled confusion flitting across her gaze but strangely no fear. "What the hell is going on?" She asks, panting still from flipping through the window.

"You just broke into an active crime scene is what's going on," Esposito says matter-of-factly.

"What? Oh god," she mutters, dropping her head down on a heavy sigh.

Reality seems to slowly seep into her bones, Castle can see the words 'crime scene' crawling beneath her skin and realisation dawning like a tangible thing, but her reaction is not what he expects. She lifts her head up and her eyes are shining with barely restrained tears. "Where's Emma?" The girl squeaks, panicked eyes frantically flitting around the small room. She comes up empty, like they did, and the room is deathly still.

They all look at each other blankly.

She brings her gaze back to them, searching each of them in turn. Looking for something… anything. Their empty, all of them are empty. A pained sob breaks through the girl's chest. She looks at Beckett and pleads with her, the words choked and breaking, crumbling in her mouth, "Please, please tell me you have her, she's only five!"

Beckett's heart drops.

* * *

_Thanks for reading. I would love to know what you think!_

_I have to say this here though, if you would like to see this story continued, I of course would love to write it for you but I cannot promise it to be updated as speedily as other fantastic writers on here manage. Too much going on to promise something like that and I would rather say that now._

_Anyway, let me hear those thoughts people..._


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